


A Dead Man in the Family: Life After Death

by Ellis_Hendricks



Series: A Dead Man in the Family [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Home for Christmas, Married Sherlock/Molly, Mycroft POV, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-27 09:08:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17159219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellis_Hendricks/pseuds/Ellis_Hendricks
Summary: Five-and-a-half years after the events of Sherrinford, Mycroft finally goes home for Christmas - but does it still feel like home?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I did a festive sequel! 
> 
> Thanks, as always, to geekmama for beta-ing for me - and a Merry Christmas to the fandom, and in particular everyone whose feedback has kept me writing in 2018 :-)

Surprises were highly overrated. In his experience, surprises tended to be unpleasant in one of several ways – and usually ended up involving a lot of work on his part to lessen the impact of said surprise, or make it go away altogether. Even as a child, he had never liked surprises, and had worked tirelessly to reduce the likelihood of things creeping up on him - even those things that were supposed to thrill and delight him. Especially those things, in fact. He supposed it probably started when his parents sprung on him, at the age of six, the ‘exciting’ news that he would be acquiring a sibling. After six years of blissful solitude and undivided parental attention, it wasn’t quite the lovely surprise Mummy and Daddy blithely assumed it would be.

From that point on, Mycroft had been extra vigilant, working hard to ensure that he had prior knowledge of everything, from birthday presents to holiday plans to what his mother was cooking for Sunday lunch – and the following year, when his mother and father sat him down again, with yet more joyful news along the same lines, he was adequately forearmed.

Christmas had long since ceased to be an occasion of surprise, thank heavens (well, unless you counted his brother’s charming scheme to put his family into a drug-induced coma at the kitchen table several years ago). Despite his long-standing assertion that he did not wish to receive any seasonal gifts from his nearest and dearest, Mycroft had successfully predicted every single cheerfully-wrapped offering made by his parents. In recent years (under Alicia’s influence, he supposed), he had tried to be more gracious – but it didn’t alter the fact that Christmas Day was essentially, mercifully, surprise-free.

This year, however, Mycroft inwardly acknowledged, might just be different. It was Christmas morning, and he was about to come face to face with his past – or a version of it, at any rate. As London receded into the distance and dual carriageways gave way to single-track roads, he was aware of the twin forces of reticence and anticipation vying for dominance. Not so long ago, to take this route again, to have this destination in sight, would scarcely have been thinkable. Nothing good abided there. And he couldn’t help but remain sceptical; could the past – a past like this – actually be overcome? His scepticism was, however, mixed with a hopefulness, one that had quietly grown over the months and the years since the initial decision was made and the paperwork filed.

And now that paperwork, that decision, those plans were very real – and only a few hundred yards ahead of him.

Mycroft slowed the car almost to a stop as he turned the final bend and approached the brand-new gate, which stood open in a gesture of welcome. They had, he noticed with a smile, replaced the sign that had always stood at the entrance. The original one had been allowed to moulder and rot, and be swallowed up by the surrounding hedgerows. Now, a bright new oak sign proudly proclaimed his destination: Musgrave Hall. 

Someone – most likely Molly – had wound a long length of tinsel around the sign, and beside it, rather incongruously, a second, temporary signpost had been spiked into the hard winter soil. This one, rendered in lively red, white and green and with a picture of what Mycroft assumed was supposed to be an elf, was emblazoned with the plea ‘Santa, please stop here!’. The smaller inhabitants of the house were clearly taking no chances.

He drove slowly up the track to the level area of land to the side of the house, where two cars already stood, taking in his surroundings as he went. It was hard to believe it was the same place. The long, wild, encroaching grass had been cut back, and a pleasant garden path restored, marked out with stones down either side. Straddling the path, on the approach to the front door, was a pergola arch, bare at the moment, but come the summer it would presumably be covered with climbing plants. 

As for the house itself, his childhood home – the Holmes family seat – was utterly transformed. Averse though he was to hyperbole, Mycroft had to admit that from the outside, the building had been very much restored to its former glory; aside from a few dark scorch marks lingering underneath the eaves, it was hard to believe that this was a house that had been reduced almost to a shell nearly forty years earlier. The brickwork had been blasted clean of moss and lichen, there was a brand-new roof, the crumbling chimney stacks had been rebuilt, and all of the windows had been reinstated in a style sympathetic to the age of the property. Above all, Musgrave Hall looked like a home once again.

He had kept his promise to Sherlock. When his brother first made the decision – with their parents’ blessing, and supported by Molly – to take on the wreck of Musgrave Hall, he had asked that Mycroft give him time. Unsure of whether he could do it justice, or whether a renovation was even possible, Sherlock wanted Mycroft and their parents to wait until he was ready for them to see the finished results. It seemed absurd at first, but eventually Mycroft came to understand Sherlock’s motives – his brother didn’t want any of them to be hurt even further than they already had been, especially given how far they’d all come since the past caught up with them at Sherrinford.

Five-and-a-half years ago, he’d sat with Sherlock on a ruined wall behind this house, exhausted, filthy, and both of them still reeling from the horrors of Eurus’ trials. That night turned out to be the catalyst for immense change in both of their lives, but Mycroft hadn’t returned to Musgrave since, instead simply doing all he could to ease Sherlock’s path through the legal paperwork and permissions. After a year of red tape and detailed planning, it had taken a further two years for the project to be completed. Sherlock, Molly, and their children were staying at Musgrave Hall for the first time this Christmas, and the fact that they had invited both him and their parents to join them felt like a good omen – but Mycroft still took the decision to leave his overnight bag in the boot of the car, in case the renovation hadn’t entirely excised the house of those old memories.

He could already hear high-pitched, excitable voices in the house when he knocked at the front door. It was opened by Sherlock, but before either of them could offer the other a greeting, there was the sound of shrieking, and two small, curly heads hurtled into view. Mycroft had quickly learnt that it was useful to have some modest bribes to hand if he wanted to avoid a full-on assault from his nephews - but, ironically, given that it was Christmas Day, his pockets were currently empty. As a result, within seconds, there was a small boy attached like a limpet to each of his legs. 

"Daddy, Uncle Mycroft is here!" cried the bigger of the two.

"Yes, thank you for pointing that out, William," Sherlock smiled. "And you're doing a very good job of ensuring that he can't go anywhere."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.

"It's Christmas, Uncle Mycroft!" the smaller of his nephews exclaimed, as though he could hardly believe it himself.

"Indeed, yes," Mycroft replied, unable to deny his nephew a smile in return.

Both boys were astoundingly like Sherlock had been as a young child; happy, energetic, imaginative (although the younger one, at two-and-a-half, was more bowling ball than human). If their resemblance to a young Sherlock wasn’t stark enough already, they were today both dressed in Fair Isle jumpers that were slightly too big for them, and looked as though they might have been dragged through a Christmas tree backwards.

“You know what? Father Christmas did come after all!” William said, as he and Teddy relinquished his legs.

Mycroft caught Sherlock’s eye.

“Ah, so he managed to negotiate the change of venue,” Mycroft replied, carefully. “I expect he’s used to that. And of course there are more chimneys to choose from here.” 

It seemed slightly ridiculous to be discussing a fictional entity with his nephew as though he was real, but Mycroft couldn’t help but recall one of his less-than-finest moments from forty years ago. Motivated by some small slight, which, in the wake of their sister’s attempts to burn them all alive felt like an acute wounding, he had delightedly revealed the truth about Father Christmas to a seven-year-old Sherlock; it was time for little brother to grow up, he had decided. Mycroft could still recall the immediate feeling of guilt, the crumpled expression on his brother’s face, the familial upheaval it caused. Continuing this harmless fallacy with his nephews was probably the least he could do. 

“Do you want to see our new house?” William asked, the administrative skills of Saint Nicholas quickly forgotten.

“It’s BIG!” added Teddy. “There are TWO stairs!”

“He means staircases,” William clarified. “Can I show you? It’s like a castle!”

Perhaps the preoccupation with – and the novelty of – the staircases wasn’t all that surprising; after all, Sherlock, Molly and their expanding family were somehow still living in Molly’s two-bedroom ground floor flat, having never quite got around to finding somewhere more suitable. Musgrave was somewhat to blame for that; as a project, it must have consumed every moment that his brother and Molly had to give – and Mycroft had the distinct feeling that Sherlock had found fatherhood slightly more overwhelming than he’d imagined.

“I’m sure Uncle Mycroft would like to see the whole house,” Sherlock said. “But perhaps we could allow him to actually come into it properly first?”

Sherlock herded his sons away from the door, affording Mycroft his first proper look at the entrance-hall; it was smaller than he remembered (like everything from the past), but somehow brighter, with more daylight spilling in through the windows at either side of the door. There was new wood paneling on the walls, and the floor had been expertly cleaned and repaired to once again reveal the ornate tiling that was centuries old.

“Look at this, Uncle Mycroft!” William suddenly announced. “Look what we can do!”

A few seconds of negotiation between the two boys, and suddenly Teddy was lying on his back on the tiles, squawking with delight while William held his ankles and swished him around like a floor-polisher. This was the point at which Mycroft’s sister-in-law appeared from the next room.

“Oh, hi! I was just starting to wonder - oh, William, not again!” 

Molly flashed Mycroft an apologetic look before aiming a very different one at his brother.

“Sherlock?” she said pointedly.

“What?” he queried, with a half-smile. “Sorry, I thought it was saving us the labour of sweeping the floors.”

Molly narrowed her eyes at him.

“Yes, well you can explain that to the doctors in A&E when Teddy cracks his head off the wall,” she replied, although she did so with a smile. “William, your brother isn’t a mop, is he?”

She went to scoop up the younger boy and set him back on his feet: he was still giggling, probably now half-delirious with dizziness. 

“Although in fairness he does bear a passing resemblance to one,” Sherlock said, raising one eyebrow. “Perhaps if someone was a little less attached to the curls…?”

Again, Molly shot Sherlock a look; the curls - both Sherlock’s and their sons’ - were clearly something Molly held sacrosanct. In that regard, she had something in common with her mother-in-law; Mycroft could recall their mother’s paroxysms of horror when Sherlock returned from his first term of boarding school sporting a short haircut and a defiant expression. 

“Anyway,” Molly said to Mycroft, shaking her head in an attempt to get back on track. “Sorry, Happy Christmas - and, um, welcome!”

She stepped closer to him, so they could exchange the cheek kisses that they had both become accustomed to over the past five years. When Molly stepped back, Mycroft noticed for the first time that there was now a visible bump beneath the cheerful, oversized Nordic jumper she was wearing; the third addition to Sherlock and Molly’s family would be with them in late spring. 

Mycroft thanked her, still taking in his surroundings. 

“It’s...it’s very nice indeed,” he said. His words felt inadequate, but he wasn’t sure whether he had quite recovered from the feelings of unreality that just being here had caused. “Thank you for the invitation.”

“Of course,” Molly replied, with a big smile. “I mean, it’s about time you actually saw it. After everything - and now that it’s finally in a state that’s worth seeing. I mean, there’s still a lot of decorating to be done, but it’s, you know, getting there.”

Sherlock had gravitated to Molly’s side and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, apparently unaware that behind them, their sons were now attempting to use the tiles as a skating rink with their socked feet. Mycroft was wondering whether this was something that warranted intervention when another voice - the voice of his own mother - pierced the air.

“Is that you, Myc?”

Sherlock smirked, and Mycroft rolled his eyes. Even Molly was stifling a smile. 

“Yes!” he called back, self-consciously. 

“His girlfriend isn’t here yet, Granny!” William added, helpfully, at an equal volume to his grandmother. Mycroft could actually feel the back of his neck becoming uncomfortably warm. 

“But your girlfriend will be joining us tomorrow?” Sherlock said, waggling his eyebrows. 

After five years, his little brother still found it endlessly amusing that he had formed an attachment with Alicia Smallwood - second only to the amusement of seeing him squirm under the scrutiny of their parents. If he made it through the next two days without a pointed reference to the state of matrimony (or rather the lack of it), it would be a Christmas miracle indeed. He saw Molly elbow Sherlock in his side.

“That is the intention,” Mycroft replied, managing a gracious smile. He thought about the overnight bag in the boot of the car, still uncertain about whether it would remain there. “Alicia sends her compliments of the season - to you especially, Molly.”

“Well, I'm feeling a lot better than when she last saw me,” Molly said, slightly grimacing at the memory. “She was very kind about her hall carpet. Anyway, it will be really nice to see her again.”

Alicia was, Mycroft knew, particularly fond of Molly; they made for an odd pair - the peer and the pathologist - but had developed a warm friendship over the past few years. Like him, Alicia had spent decades in the company of people with ulterior motives, with secrets and grudges and agendas; Mycroft could understand how Molly's openness and lack of guile was like a breath of fresh air.

“Myc, are you trying to hide from us?” came his mother’s voice again.

Sherlock glanced towards the living room door.

“You can hide here as long as you like,” he said to Mycroft. “That sofa is so soft and low to the ground that they're both basically stuck there until one of us helps them out of it.”

Again, Molly gave Sherlock a light shove, and he chuckled in response. Although it was no longer novel, it was still quite a thing to see his brother laugh so easily.

The children dashed ahead and the adults followed, Sherlock standing back to allow Mycroft to go ahead of him into the sitting room. A sizeable, real Christmas tree stood one side of the fireplace, and in the middle of the room, his parents were indeed being almost consumed by a large, soft settee. Batting away offers of help, they levered themselves onto their feet to greet him. 

“Good to have you here, Myc,” his father said, patting his shoulder.

It was a strange, unbalancing experience to see his parents in this setting again. Almost as though he had stumbled into a parallel lifetime, one where they had never been forced to abandon their cherished family home. 

His mother shuffled closer and Mycroft stooped to allow her to kiss his cheek, as she wished him a Merry Christmas. 

“What do you think?” she asked, squeezing his hand in hers. She used a hushed tone, as though for a moment they were the only ones in the room. It was evident from his mother's mood and expression what she thought of the new, rejuvenated Musgrave (no doubt a relief to Sherlock and Molly), but Mycroft still felt ill-equipped to answer that question. 

“It's... it's quite something,” he replied, diplomatically. “From what I've seen so far.”

His mother smiled.

“Here, Myc, have one of these,” - she seemed to conjure a glass of sherry from nowhere - “and come and sit.”

Before he could protest, she had practically dragged him into a sitting position. It was clearly a conspiracy, because before he had even decided how he was going to surreptitiously dispose of the sickly-sweet beverage in his hand, his nephews both appeared in his eyeline again.

“Uncle Mycroft, do you want to see what we got in our stockings?” interjected William. The fact that he was, at the time, dumping the contents of his stocking onto his uncle’s lap led one to believe that this question was probably rhetorical. When Mycroft glanced up, he saw Sherlock smirking at him again – and cradling a tumbler of what looked like very good whisky.

Mycroft proceeded to make a series of encouraging, conciliatory noises, as William and Teddy rapidly presented him with one small, inexplicable, bright plastic thing after another. When they appeared to be reaching the end, William paused.

“Uncle Mycroft? I've got some questions. How did Father Christmas know not to go to our normal house this year? And how did he get into our house last year when the chimney is blocked up? Daddy said that I should ask you, because you're the smart one.”

Mycroft heard his mother's brief musical laugh, and looked up to see that Sherlock was apparently, and very suddenly, preoccupied with the contents of his tumbler. 

“I...I expect he has a system,” Mycroft ventured. He hoped this would suffice, but William was still studying him, waiting. He had a touch of The Grand Inquisitor about him. “And a very efficient team...of elves...and suchlike.”

At this point, Molly swooped in from the wings, and started to put the presents back into the stockings, sneaking a smile at Mycroft.

“Let's let Uncle Mycroft settle in,” she said. “I think Daddy is going to show him around the house now.”

She glanced behind her at Sherlock, who set his empty glass on the bookshelf beside him.

“Can we?” William asked.

“It's going to be very boring,” Sherlock replied, with a mock sigh, placing a hand briefly on his son's head. “We're going to be talking about dry-rot and penetrating damp and planning codes. Your new train set would be far more interesting.”

Once the boys were sufficiently distracted, Sherlock subtly gestured for Mycroft to follow. As they made their way back through the entrance hall, towards the main stairs, Sherlock wordlessly nudged a glass of whisky into his hand. Mycroft wordlessly thanked him. Now they were alone, Mycroft felt he needed to address the one thing that has unsettled him most since his arrival.

“I appreciate that there's a lot to see here, Sherlock, but before we do anything, I'm intrigued by what this is.”

Mycroft gestured towards the brownish-green knitted jumper that his brother was wearing. He wasn't sure that even John Watson wouldn't wear something like this; it looked distinctly 'cosy'. Sherlock glanced down at himself, frowning.

“My commiserations,” Mycroft continued. “Evidently, some of us succumb to the trappings of middle-age more easily than others.”

“I will be dressing for dinner,” Sherlock replied. “Although I'd like to point out that this is one-handed per cent Himalayan cashmere.”

He adjusted the garment on his frame.

“And besides,” he muttered. “Molly likes it.”

Mycroft smiled; now it made perfect sense. Romantic attachments had cast a strange spell on both of them.

They climbed the stairs and turned onto the landing, the walls of which were hung with red and gold paper chains. As with the rooms downstairs, there was an immediate familiarity, but what it wasn't - to Mycroft's relief - was an attempt to recreate the past. He knew that Sherlock and Molly had obtained the original plans of Musgrave Hall, and had photographs for reference, but their own ideas and personalities were evident everywhere Mycroft turned. 

They looked in on the bathroom, then on the master bedroom, with Sherlock providing a commentary that was supposed to convey a casual level of interest - but Mycroft could tell just how invested his brother was, and how proud of the result. Considering how little Sherlock appeared to care about his living environment when he was at Baker Street - content to dwell in filth and barely-ordered chaos - Mycroft was amazed at how much care he had clearly put into this project. It was, of course, the first home that he and Molly had made together from scratch, which likely had something to do with it.

Sherlock led him between the remaining bedrooms.

“Teddy is in my old room,” Sherlock said. “William chose yours.”

Mycroft stepped around the doorframe and into the room that had dogged his dreams and memories over the past four decades. A refuge and castle for the first thirteen years of his life, his last view of it - illegally, with the house ruled unsafe by the Fire Service - had had a profound effect. Amongst other things, it had taught him not to become too attached. But now, the impossible had been achieved - it was once again a space that could be beloved by someone. The old fireplace had been restored and the grate, by the looks of it, was being employed as a holding pen for William's assorted plastic dinosaurs. 

“The baby will sleep in Mummy and Dad's old study,” Sherlock continued. “Although we have plans to properly refurbish the old servants' rooms upstairs, eventually.”

Mycroft turned to face his brother.

“You're not thinking about having more?”

He knew Sherlock never did anything by halves, but the third child had been surprise enough. His brother laughed.

“No, for guest space, mostly,” he said. “Somewhere for Rosie, when she visits. And possibly a lab.”

Mycroft flicked a glance to the other end of the landing, to the room under the eaves.

“What…what about Eurus’ room?”

It had, of course, been ground zero, the epicentre of the damage. But even before then, Mycroft had disliked venturing into their sister's room, where the normal childish things - a dolls’ house, farm animals - gathered dust, and the chalkboard easel was used to scrawl ever-more disturbing threats on Sherlock's life.

“Come and look,” Sherlock replied, with a jerk of his head. 

Unsure what he was about to discover, Mycroft edged past his brother and found himself in what was clearly a playroom. Although only sparsely-furnished at the moment, there were bookshelves built into the alcove, a wooden pirates’ ship by the window, and a star-covered teepee in the centre of the floor. 

“It's all Eurus ever wanted,” Sherlock said, with a shrug. “To play, and be played with. To belong. It seemed...fitting.”

Mycroft found himself nodding his approval, as he absorbed the unassuming splendour of their sister’s reimagined room. They stood in silence for a moment, the sound of Sherlock's sons’ excited voices drifting up from beneath them. 

“It's a girl,” Sherlock said suddenly. “The baby. We found out last week. Haven't told Mummy and Dad yet, or John, so you're the first to know.”

Mycroft couldn't help but think that this news and their current location weren't entirely a coincidence. 

“How do you feel about that?” he asked carefully.

Sherlock's face broke out into a broad smile.

“Ecstatically happy,” he replied. 

Mycroft assumed that his own expression must have looked uncertain, because Sherlock spoke again.

“She will be no more our sister than William is you, or Teddy is me,” he said. “...Although I do fully expect her to run rings around all of us.”

They descended the stairs again, and once Sherlock had conferred with Molly, he suggested that they see the outside of the house before it got too dark. He ducked into the living room and emerged again with a child in each hand.

“Time to run off some festive energy before lunch,” Sherlock explained, taking two small duffle coats down from the pegs in the entrance hall. He pulled a bobble hat over each curly head, and lifted two pairs of feet into yellow wellington boots, before pulling on his Belstaff and grabbing his scarf. Mycroft allowed his nephews to scramble ahead of him out of the door, then followed obediently.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft completes his Christmas tour of the newly-renovated Musgrave Hall, where there are a few more memories to be recalled, and a few more discoveries to be made...

Their band of four made its way out of the door and around the east wall and into what was always the formal garden, laid out with perfect mathematical precision by their mother (and then inevitably undermined by their father’s rather haphazard gardening efforts). The large expanse of lawn had been cut, and would surely be the perfect venue for games come the summer. Not that Mycroft was ever one for games, particularly of the outdoor variety - but he got the feeling Sherlock and Molly's children would be different. At this point, William and Teddy were running in circles around the grass, giggling, and apparently confused over who was chasing who.

Sherlock beckoned them to follow, and as they all turned the corner again, Mycroft was greeted by a sight he hadn't expected.

“You kept them?”

Sherlock, now helping Teddy with the toggles on his coat, looked up and followed Mycroft's gaze to the collection of fictitious headstones standing in the grass.

“I couldn't see a reason not to,” Sherlock replied. “They were never about death or loss. And they felt as much a part of this place as the house itself.”

Teddy ran off to try to catch his brother, and Sherlock straightened up, running a hand through his mussed hair.

“I’d...I'd like to show you something...”

He reached into his pocket for his phone, flicking through the screen views until he found what he wanted, and then holding the device out to Mycroft.

On the screen was a close-up photograph of a large, flat stone, engraved. Mycroft zoomed in slightly to read the words:

_“And a brave lad you were, and smart too…and a finer figurehead for a gentleman of fortune I never clapped my eyes on.”_

“From _Treasure Island_ ,” Mycroft murmured.

Sherlock bowed his head slightly.

“When we had the old well properly sealed up, I...I wanted to do _something_ ,” he said. “This was Molly's idea. It's set into the ground under a tree near the well.”

Like Eurus’ room, Mycroft knew that the final, awful resting place of Victor Trevor was going to be one of the most difficult things for Sherlock to address during the renovation. Nothing could ever be enough, but this was a modest, heartfelt tribute.

“Daddy! Teddy fell in the dirt and now there's dirt in his nose!”

Any melancholy reflection was immediately abandoned, and Sherlock furrowed his brow before striding across the grass to inspect the extent of Teddy's soil-inhalation (the sort of thing, Mycroft noted, that his brother took in his stride these days).

“Well, that’s one way of collecting soil samples, young man,” Sherlock said, smiling at his son. “But I think we'll be having something much better to eat very soon.” Teddy was now in his arms, pulling a face and blowing raspberries while Sherlock wiped earth from his mouth and nose. “Let’s go and get you both changed.”

****

Back in the house, Christmas Day played out, and Mycroft allowed himself to be swept along, his nephews largely taking centre stage. Lunch was excellent, and it was followed by more opening of presents (he was right - no surprises), and, eventually, drinks.

When time and circumstances allowed it, Mycroft took the opportunity to study his surroundings in more detail. The house _was_ remarkable, and something that could only have been possible because of Sherlock's relationship with Molly - because the future was now important to him; because he was ready and able to confront and make peace with his past.

Mycroft observed Sherlock and Molly during the course of the afternoon; five-and-a-half years after Molly had forced the words out of him, after she’d confessed them herself, it was clear that Sherlock was more besotted than ever. The little touches, the private language of glances and smiles, the good-natured bickering and teasing - it all pointed to a deep, abiding love that Mycroft knew Sherlock didn’t take for granted for a moment. Later on, on a mission to obtain yet _more_ cups of tea for his parents, Mycroft came across his brother and sister-in-law in the kitchen; Sherlock’s arms were wrapped loosely around Molly’s waist, while they took full, unhurried advantage of the mistletoe hanging from the beam above their heads.

Mycroft hung back for a moment, unseen; as they broke apart, Sherlock ducked low and murmured something to Molly that caused her to laugh, her forehead falling against his chest. It was still with a flash of guilt that Mycroft recalled how vehemently he had once fought to keep Molly Hooper out of his brother's life. As it turned out, Molly had unquestionably _given_ Sherlock life.

An hour later, his nephews were in their pyjamas, sandwiched between their grandparents (both dozing) on the sofa and watching an adaptation of _A Christmas Carol_ , which seemed to involve rodents breaking into song on a regular basis. Mycroft slipped out of the living room. He quietly climbed the stairs again, and was still questioning his actions as his hand turned the knob of his old bedroom door. Once inside, he stood silently for a long moment, trying to recall how everything used to be configured - his bed along the wall to the right, his desk under the window, his record player on the top of the drawers beside the wardrobe. When the house was set alight, his bedroom had still been full of his childhood possessions - things that would never be replaced when they moved into the new house. It was, as Uncle Rudy had remarked firmly, time to grow up.

But, like the rest of the house, he conceded that this room did house good memories, too. Unwrapping new LPs ordered from the tiny music shop in Horsham; sitting on the floor and reorganising his books by whatever system he currently favoured; practising his lines for the next school play.

The soft knock on the open door behind him made Mycroft spin around. Molly was standing there, smiling apologetically. They both tried to speak at the same time.

“Sorry, I-”

“My apologies-”

Mycroft gestured for Molly to go first. Over the past few years, the two of them had developed a pleasant, comfortable friendship, albeit after a slightly uncertain start. Fiercely protective of Sherlock, Molly had - understandably - been taken aback by the unravelling Holmes family secrets, and Mycroft’s role in guarding them. He was very fortunate, he knew, that his sister-in-law was a woman of rare perception and understanding.

“I didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” Molly said. “I was coming upstairs to finish getting the bedrooms ready. You...you are staying tonight?”

Mycroft thought about the overnight bag in the boot of the car, his get-out clause. He didn’t get the chance to confirm or give his apologies before Molly spoke again.

“Anyway...there was something I wanted to give you,” she continued. “But...well, not necessarily in front of everyone, I suppose.”

He hadn’t noticed before, but she was carrying a small shoebox under one arm, which she then shifted so that she was holding it in both hands.

“I’m still not sure this is the right thing to do, that you…” - she paused, her brow furrowed as she fixed her gaze on the box - “...but I hope it’s okay. Sherlock thought it would be.”

It was clear that this was no Christmas present in the conventional sense. Mycroft nodded once, encouraging her to continue.

“When the builders first started work, when they were clearing the site, they started to find things,” Molly began. “Just little things mostly, but we asked them to put everything to one side. This...these things were found in your old room.”

Molly tentatively held out the box to him, and Mycroft reflexively took it. It was light, but he could feel small objects were rolling around inside it.

“You, um, you don’t have to look at it now,” she said quickly. “Or, you know, at all - if you’d rather not. But, well, they were your things, so…”

Slowly, Mycroft eased the lid off the box. What could possibly have survived the fire? He had, of course, carried out one search himself, without his parents’ knowledge, but had recovered nothing from his incinerated bedroom of worth or note. His fingers moved among the objects in the box, the pace of his heart increasing.

Marble chess pieces, two of them - a pawn and a knight. A small soapstone paperweight. His old House Captain badge from school, twisted but still intact. Something that he eventually realised was the brass eyepiece from his telescope.

Mycroft lifted out a small tin box with a lid, dented and with the original design barely recognisable. But he did recognise it.

“That was actually under the floorboards,” Molly said.

“I know,” he replied, with a slight smile.

“Sherlock had never seen it before,” she added.

“It was my secret hoard,” Mycroft said, looking up. “Nothing illicit,” he elaborated, when he saw Molly’s questioning look. “Sweets, mostly. The occasional chocolate bar. It’s probably fair to say that I had...a weakness.”

Molly’s face broke into a smile.

Mycroft levered open the hinged lid, half expecting to find melted and solidified boiled sweets and chews welded to the bottom of the tin.

“Hm,” he said, raising his eyebrows at the sight of the empty box. “Must have been peckish.”

Molly gave a short laugh.

“They, um, they found some things of Sherlock’s, too,” she said, her hand roaming over the small bump of her stomach. “I’d like to do something with them, although I can’t think what just yet. You’re...you’re welcome to leave your things, too, if you’d prefer. It could be - I don’t know - some sort of a project. You can think about it, though.”

Mycroft replaced the lid on the shoebox.

“I will,” he told her. “Thank you.”

Molly nodded.

“Well, I’d better go and finish the rooms,” she said. “I’m not sure who needs to get to bed first - the boys, or your mum and dad.”

Now in their mid-eighties, his parents could almost fall asleep mid-conversation if they were comfortable enough. Just resting their eyes, they insisted. 

His sister-in-law made to leave.

“Molly,” Mycroft said, clearing his throat.

She stopped, turning to face him again.

“I wanted to say...that you and Sherlock have done a remarkable job with the house,” he said, realising just how much he meant the words as they left his mouth. “I’ll admit that I didn’t know what to expect, was a little...hesitant. But it’s...well, it’s quite incredible. You should both feel proud.”

His sister-in-law’s face spread into a smile, and she thanked him.

“To be honest, I never would have imagined myself doing anything like this,” she said, tucking a strand of her long, loose hair behind her ear. “But I could see how much it meant to Sherlock to at least try - and to your mum and dad, too, I think.”

Mycroft nodded in agreement.

“They seem delighted with it.”

Sherlock and Molly had originally, Mycroft knew, offered to rebuild the house for his parents’ benefit, but they wouldn’t hear of it - they were settled where they were, and had gladly signed the deeds over to Sherlock.

“Well, London’s still going to be home for the time-being,” Molly continued. “But Sherlock’s keen to come down at the weekends, when neither of us are working. You and Alicia are welcome to come and stay here anytime you like, though, whether we’re here or not.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft told her. “And thank you for today - for dinner, and, well...all of the things for which I haven’t adequately expressed my gratitude. For my brother. For forgiving my sins...and my misconceptions.”

When he looked up, Molly was regarding him, her lips pulled tightly together. Then, unexpectedly, she took two steps towards him and drew him into a gentle hug. It came so far out of nowhere that Mycroft just stood there stiffly for a couple of seconds, before placing an arm gently around Molly's shoulder. As they stood there, Molly turned her head just far enough so she could whisper, “I promise I won't make a habit of this.”

Mycroft laughed softly, and she stepped away, pulling down the sleeves of her jumper, which, on closer inspection, he realised was covered in microscopes, DNA double helices and other scientific symbols.

“I was going to wheel out the mince pies in a few minutes, if you've got room?” Molly said. “William and Teddy were involved in the baking, so I can't completely vouch for the hygiene, but Sherlock ate one this morning and he's still standing. Well, he was ten minutes ago.”

“It’s a risk I'm willing to take,” Mycroft replied. “I, ah, I just need to fetch something from the car first.”

“Oh,” Molly replied. “Good.”

She smiled, and as she turned and then disappeared into Sherlock's old room, Mycroft realised that Molly knew exactly what he was doing - had known all along. But it wasn't, he reflected, a case of him being so transparent - it was merely that his sister-in-law happened to be very good at this. Alicia had a similar talent. He and Sherlock were, Mycroft acknowledged, extraordinarily lucky.

Carefully placing the shoebox on the mantelpiece in his old bedroom, Mycroft set off to collect his overnight bag from the car.

Improbable though it had seemed earlier that morning, it was time to settle in and make merry.

 

THE END

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading - and wishing the fandom a fantastic start to 2019 (...it can't be as bad as 2018, right?!) :-)

**Author's Note:**

> In case it wasn't apparent, I was keen to pay tribute to the lovely selection of knitwear that Benedict Cumberbatch was sporting during the promos for The Grinch - not very Sherlock, but I imagined that Molly might find him quite cuddly in them! :-D (He would definitely draw the line at the moustache, though - unless he grew it to take the piss out of John!)
> 
> Concluding chapter up soon :-)


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